Owen shifted in the worn dorm chair, the cracked vinyl groaning under his weight. His eyes flicked to the clock again, jaw tightening as they returned to the closed door.

She was late.

They had agreed: 8 p.m. sharp. No small talk, no witnesses, just a release—quick, quiet, uncomplicated. That had been the deal from the beginning.

But now... now he wasn't sure.

He'd seen her earlier—laughing with someone else. Jace? Jaren? He couldn't remember, couldn't bother to. What stuck in his mind wasn't the guy's name—it was the way she smiled. The kind of smile she never gave him.

It sat like something rotten in his stomach.

Jealousy.

He didn't want to name it, but there it was—undeniable and ugly. Owen didn't do feelings. Never had. They were messy, irrational, and in his world, dangerous. But lately, with her, it kept creeping in—raw and real and unwanted.

She was never supposed to mean anything. Just heat, skin, and sweat. No strings. That had been his one rule.

Now he was breaking it.

With a low groan, he tipped his head back and exhaled a long stream of smoke, the cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers. He ground the stub into the ashtray with more force than necessary and dragged a hand down his face.

Then— Knock knock.

His eyes snapped to the door.

Finally.

He stood and crossed the room in a few long strides. When he opened the door, there she was—backlit by the hallway's dim light, all hush and shadows. She looked breathtaking when she was sneaking around like this. Forbidden. Dangerous. His.

Without a word, he stepped aside, letting her in, his eyes tracking the sway of her hips as she passed. He closed the door and turned the lock with a definitive click.

"You're late," he muttered, voice low and rough.

He moved behind her in one smooth motion, slipping his hand over her hip, fingers spreading possessively as he pulled her flush against his chest. His mouth dipped to her neck, breathing her in, slow and deliberate.

"I thought we said 8 p.m.," he whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear before placing a slow kiss just beneath it.

His other hand slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, palm gliding over the warmth of her stomach. He walked her backward, steering her toward the bed without breaking contact.

"Who was that guy you were talking to earlier?" His voice stayed soft, but there was a sharp edge buried in it. "You looked... cheerful. You don't act like that with me."

He pushed her gently down onto the bed, following her with a shadowed gaze.

"Well... not yet, at least." There was no mistaking it now—jealousy, raw and real, bleeding into every word. And God help him, he hated how much he liked it.